


Synchronicity

by Topicabo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Diogenes Club, First Aid, Fumbling with their feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Injuries, Pre-Relationship, Rupert Graves Birthday Auction 2018, minor bleeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-11 16:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16479176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/pseuds/Topicabo
Summary: “We could have rescheduled."“Not like I can’t have a meeting like this. ‘Sides, not the worst I’ve been banged up on the job.”





	Synchronicity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Echo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo/gifts).



> I was bid on by the lovely Echo in the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction for 2018. Got some writer's block, but very pleased with what came out!

The doorman gives Greg an odd look as he enters the Diogenes Club. Greg doesn’t blame him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it either. He gets a similar look from the man at reception as well. Ignoring that too, he pulls his warrant card from his coat and tosses it onto the front desk.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, here to see Mycroft Holmes.”

Checking his ID seems to take longer than normal. Greg reaches up, gingerly prodding at the butterfly stitch below his eye. The pinch of pain makes him wince. He notices the man eyeing him again and drops his arm to his side. There’s at least no comments when his card is handed back to him, or when he signs in.

A few club members are still hanging about even though it’s close to ten. He gets one or two more disapproving looks, but the rest don’t even glance up as he walks through. That’s actually not much different from the other times he’s been here. The stuffed gits just look more startled this time around.

He reaches the familiar mahogany door and presses the call button to the side. His ears just barely catch the muted tone from inside the room. He fiddles at the bandage while he waits. Seconds later, the lock gives a quiet click.

This office is much bigger and more lavish than the one in Whitehall. Desk and bookshelves to one side, a small lounge with armchairs and an electric fireplace on the other. An ensuite is located on the right side of the room. Apparently members use it for a temporary workspace, though Greg’s only ever seen Mycroft inside. The distance from the main area of the club makes it one of the few places besides the Stranger’s Room where they can meet without disturbing anyone.

Mycroft is behind the desk, laptop open in front of him. A tumbler of something coloured dark amber sits a short distance from his hand. Mycroft looks up from the screen, a politely indifferent expression already in place. “Detective Inspect-“

He stops, eyes widening. It’s probably the closest to genuine surprise that Greg’s ever seen from him. Greg watches Mycroft take in his bandaged cut, the darkening bruise up near his brow. Greg says nothing, just closes the door behind him. As he walks across the carpet, he’s sure the torn trousers hidden under his coat are noticed, and the way he’s favoring his right leg.

He gets to Mycroft’s desk and stops there, crossing his arms. He tries for a smile. It probably looks like a grimace.

“Evening, Mr. Holmes.”

He glances at Mycroft’s drink.

_Eh, fuck it._

“Chance I could get some of that? Long day.”

A slight frown forms on Mycroft’s face, but he stands and moves over to one of the bookcases. There’s a small nook built into the shelf. Greg can see a few filled decanters and various glasses sitting inside. He’s guessing whiskey is Mycroft’s choice tonight, but he’ll be happy with anything so long as it’s alcohol and strong.

“We could have rescheduled,” Mycroft says as he pours.

Greg’s mouth quirks in amusement. One advantage to Mycroft reading his whole evening with a look; less explaining to do.

“Not like I can’t have a meeting like this. ‘Sides, not the worst I’ve been banged up on the job.”

Mycroft glances at Greg’s face, an eyebrow arched. He looks away again.

“Regardless, you should have that looked at properly.”

“You sound like my mum.”

“Your mother is a wholly sensible woman, then.”

Greg huffs a laugh. This dry, quiet snarkiness isn’t a regular thing with Mycroft. Greg likes when he gets to see it.

“I’ll get around to it. Just had better things to do.” Greg absentmindedly presses his fingers to the outer edge of the bandage again. The skin underneath is itchy for some reason.

Mycroft finishes and turns to Greg, that little hint of a frown back, but it disappears by the time Greg’s drink passes between them.

“Ta,” Greg says, taking a sip. He flinches the next second as a stinging sensation blooms in his mouth.

“Lestrade?”

Greg manages to swallow, stubbornness winning out over pain. That and remembering what he’s drinking most likely costs a stupid amount. He touches a finger to his inner lip. Sure enough, it comes back with a little smear of blood.

“Damn it…” Good cap to the evening, Greg thinks wearily. He lets Mycroft take the glass from his hand without a fight. Not like he’d be able to enjoy it right now.

“Greg, you’re bleeding.”

“Thanks, I know.”

“No,” Mycroft says, an edge to his tone that makes Greg pause, “not there.”

“What? …Oh, shit-“

Greg’s hand is nearly to his face when Mycroft catches hold of his wrist. Greg goes still, startled into silence. He can feel the subtle strength behind Mycroft’s grip. Close as they are to each other, he notices the little skitter of something under Mycroft’s expression, something not normally part of the stuffy three-piece package.

Mycroft lets go moments later, taking a step back. “Pardon, but you shouldn’t touch it directly.” He tugs the handkerchief free from his breast pocket and offers it. He’s not quite looking Greg in the eye as he does. “Better to use this.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” Greg presses the fabric to his cheek, quietly wondering. Out loud he says, “I’m not bleeding on anything expensive, am I?”

Amusement crooks the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “It’s negligible. Besides I would prefer to spare the staff from having to clean blood off the carpet.”

“Right, right.”

They look at each other a moment.

“You’ll need a new bandage,” Mycroft says. “There’s a kit, in the bathroom.” He hesitates. “I could – That is, if you’d allow – “

“Okay.”

Mycroft stops, eyeing Greg as though unsure he’s heard right. “Yes?”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft wasn’t expecting him to accept. Greg can tell. He might not have, under normal circumstances.

But Mycroft is offering; no conditions attached, no motive Greg can see beyond wanting to help.

And that makes Greg curious enough to let him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Washing the cut comes first. It’s easiest for Greg to just stick his face directly under the water faucet, though the angle is awkward. The clean washcloth he’s now holding against his face is pristinely white, a monogrammed “D.C.” near the hem. Between this and the handkerchief, Greg hopes the Diogenes has good laundry services.

The ensuite is more subdued than Greg was expecting, though he bets it’s still on par if not better than what he’d find in most high-end hotels. Shades of cream and burgundy, a full shower and bath. The sink is made of marble, overlooked by a large mirror with two mounted wall lights on either side.

Mycroft’s busy opening up the little green first aid kit; jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows to free up his arms. Greg discretely takes in the smattering of freckles sprinkled down his exposed forearms, the natural slope of Mycroft’s shoulders.

“Would you like a chair?” Mycroft asks, turning on the water taps. Greg refocuses.

“I’m good. Just let me-“ Carefully, Greg eases himself up next to the sink, suppressing a groan. It feels stupidly good to get off his feet. He looks over, notices Mycroft raising an eyebrow. “Easier on my leg this way.”

Mycroft nods, but as he washes and dries off his hands, he’s got an expression like there’s something knocking about in his head that won’t settle. Greg wonders again, but he lets it alone.

“How’s it looking?” Mycroft asks, glancing over. He makes satisfied hum when Greg lowers the washcloth. “The bleeding seems to have stopped. Though we’ll have to-“

Stepping closer, he lifts his hand, slow enough that Greg isn’t startled this time. The fingertips that brush over his skin are warmer than he was expecting. Mycroft’s thumb and index finger close onto the lower end of the bandage and gently begin peeling it away. Greg winces when the adhesive tugs at his skin.

Mycroft pauses.

“Apologies. These are generally left to fall off on their own.”

“S’fine. Don’t mind me.” Greg keeps his head still while Mycroft continues, watching his quiet concentration, the careful steadiness of his hands. “Seem to know what you’re doing.”

“Marginally, yes. It was useful knowledge to have while Sherlock was growing up.”

“Bit of a handful?”

“That’s one way of putting it – ah, there we are.“ The bandage finally comes free. Mycroft bins it and reaches over for the first aid kit. “Far too much energy and not nearly enough common sense.”

“So not much has changed?”

Mycroft huffs softly, the ghost of a smile twitching his lips. _Made him laugh_ , Greg realises. Not that Mycroft hasn’t in front of him before. It’s just never come off quite that… genuine.

_Nice, when he smiles like this._

“In regards to his personal well-being, no,” Mycroft says, tearing open a dressing pad packet. “But I’ve not been called upon in this capacity since he turned ten, so I’ve rather fallen out of practice, I’m afraid.”

Something about his tone - that spark of fondness, sends an odd sort of tug through Greg’s chest.

“Do you-” Greg wants to word it right, but instead stumbles into, “you ever miss it?”

Mycroft’s eyes flick to his, something complicated passing over his expression. For a second Greg thinks he might have tread too far. Then, Mycroft blinks, glancing away.

“It was – simpler, I suppose. When he still confided in me.” He straightens, looking to Greg with a smile - one a bit more guarded than before. “Let’s call it nostalgia, Detective Inspector."

The new dressing only takes a few moments to apply. Greg stays silent, not sure what to make of this strange, insubstantial mood hovering between them. Like if he looks too close, or directly points it out, it’ll just evaporate on the spot.

Greg feels protective of it, somehow.

“This should serve for now.” Mycroft gently takes hold of Greg’s chin and angles his face to the left, running one last critical eye over his work. “You may still avoid stitches, though I’ll leave that decision to someone better trained than I.” He throws Greg a pointed glance.

Greg smirks, reading between the lines. “Got tomorrow off, as it happens. Some bollocks from the boss about being injured. I can see about getting it properly looked at.”

“How fortunate you can find the time,” Mycroft says wryly, drawing his hand back.

“Don’t think I’d hear the end of it from you if I didn’t.”

Mycroft laughs, audibly this time - a soft, uneven sort of sound, as though he’s caught off guard by it. “Purely done in your best interests, I assure you.” Humour lingers in the crease of his eyebrows and the quick scrunch of his nose.

Something about the moment nudges a bit of honesty loose from Greg.

“Appreciate it, Mycroft. Really.” He remembers the obvious and gestures to his face. “This too. S’good of you.”

Greg expects a gentle scoff in response, maybe one of those dry quips.

Neither happens. The lull before Mycroft speaks is just a hair too long to be natural.

“I’m - only too glad to help, Detective Inspector,” he says, quiet.

“Greg.” Greg smiles as Mycroft’s brows draw together. “Remember? You had it earlier.”

Mycroft’s face blanks, then shifts when he realises.

“Ah.” Amusement flickers back into view. ”Greg, yes.”

A series of soft chimes from the office pull their eyes towards the door. Greg recognises them after a second.

“Gone ten, hasn’t it?” he says with sigh. He scoots up to the edge of the sink and Mycroft immediately moves to his side, placing a hand on Greg’s back. Using Mycroft’s shoulder to brace himself, Greg slides onto his feet. He clenches down on a soft grunt of pain.

“Steady.”

Greg nods, taking a breath. “I’m okay. Leg’s a bit raw is all.”

“I could arrange for a car to take you home, if you’d like.”

Greg’s mood suddenly sinks a little at the thought, though he’s not sure why. It’s all he’d wanted earlier. Sit on his couch with some late night telly and take-out after a crap day, then to bed to let his brain shut off for the next ten or so hours.

Now, he feels a bit off about it.

He pushes it down, some place where it doesn’t show on his face.

“Yeah, that’d be - thanks. Makes things a lot easier.”

Mycroft, however, remains watching Greg for moments, his palm still resting low on Greg’s shoulder. Greg’s familiar enough with that look to know he’s being assessed in some way.

“Very well,” Mycroft finally says, his phone appearing from the inner pocket of his jacket. Greg feels Mycroft’s fingers flex slightly against his back before pulling away.

As Mycroft dials, Greg drops his gaze to the tiles under his feet.

_Right, no point in hanging about. Held him up too long already…_

“Hello, Danvers. I’ll need you to bring the car around. Five minutes. …Yes. Also, I’ll have an additional passenger with me.”

Greg suddenly looks up again.

“Yes, thank you.” Mycroft rings off and looks to Greg. “I’ll just need to gather my things, then we can go.”

Greg stares at him, not quite understanding.

“We?”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft pauses, a little uncertain again. “Is there a problem?”

“I just – I figured you still had work to do.”

“I’d mostly finished for the day when you arrived. The rest will keep until tomorrow.” His words have a cautious weight, as though he’ll need to pull them back or amend them. “Though, I could call you a cab if you’d prefer.“

“No, no,” Greg says hastily. “I’d rather-“ His chest suddenly squeezes as the truth of it settles inside him.

_A little longer._

_I want a bit longer._

Greg lets out a sheepish laugh. He chances looking into Mycroft’s eyes, quietly reassured that Mycroft doesn’t look completely put off.

“It’s really no trouble?”

Mycroft’s expression softens. A small smile hesitates, then emerges. Still restrained and even proper in its own way.

But no longer in doubt.

“It’s no trouble, Greg.”


End file.
